Disowning Loki
by TheSignsOfDeduction
Summary: When Thor tells their parents about Loki and him being in a relationship, neither parent takes it too well. [This story serves as a backstory for Loki; a trigger to his depression. The future of this story is not Thorki, but Frostiron, and it is available on AO3 here: /series/200224 I would really appreciate it if more people read it :) ]
1. One Less Odinson

Thor stands at a fair distance from me, his face contorted into something I've never seen, not even during that time that we first slept together and he so afraid he'd break me. I notice many things at once: the half-frown he sports that is an open declaration that he is so worried he didn't even know he is frowning; the way he purses his lips slightly as if a line or word he needs to say is so heavy that it weighs down on his lips; even the way his gaze seems to shake whilst looking at me, darting from eye to eye, yet afraid to look at either. What is troubling him I can find out later. Now, I just need to make him feel better. I reach my right hand to his cheek and he almost shudders away from me. I withdraw my touch immediately.

"What's wrong, Thor?" I ask, concerned.

"Loki." Thor states, in a voice that only further proves my deduction that Thor is frightened.

"Tell me what's wrong, my darling." I attempt to comfort Thor. Since my touch and presence did nothing to ease his discomfort, I resort to getting him to talk.

The next moment, my heart as good as stops. Hidden behind a wall, I couldn't see our parents, but now they remove themselves from secrecy and walk over to us, eyes of fire bearing into my soul.

Although Thor and I aren't blood related, we are technically and lawfully brothers, and it is still very taboo. As for the icing on the cake? Well, our parents are homophobic. So I can only imagine the onslaught of fiery words and blows they would strike me with. Instead, I was greeted with ice.

"Come with us, Loki." Father orders simply, before walking to their bedroom. I follow. Mother and Father sit down on the bed, but face me.

"We can't have you being with Thor." Father told me. I had braced myself for the punch but only got a warning. Their response was so positive that I forgot how to think for a moment.

"We want you out." Father continues. And there it is: the words that explain their previous calmness. I look to Mother, only then registering the horrified expression on my face. Mother had always been kinder tk me than Father, but now she only looked away with tears brimming her eyes.

"What do you mean?" I ask, though it took all of my strength. I feel the panic slowly creeping into my body, starting from my fingertips, which immediately made them recoil into a fist. Being under the same roof was the only way I was able to get to Thor, without this house, there would be no future for me and Thor, who is everything to me. I gave my heart and soul on a silver platter to Thor, I devoted so much to him. He is The One for me, I am absolutely certain. The manner in which I had to meet him doesn't matter a thing. It couldn't.

"We want you to pack your things and leave. You are no longer our son." Father announces. I hear a loud hit against the door but only Mother perks her head up to look. I know it's Thor. I am stunned still, unable to comprehend the words they were saying. What did they even mean? They'd already told me I was adopted before. Unless..

"Are you disowning me?" I demand, raising my voice and making the tears roll down Mother's face.

"You're eighteen, therefore you are a legal adult. If you were younger, we'd have to get you emancipated. Change your name, we won't have someone like you tarnish the Odinson name." Father continues in a voice that is scarily, unnaturally like himself. It is too calm for him. He's already thought this through. He'd, no, _they'd_ already made up their mind.

"What will it be?" I ask, knowing nothing of my biological parents.

"Whatever you want." Father replies.

I take one step backwards, nearly falling over, and I glance at both Mother and Father. Father stares right at me, unforgiving, hateful. Mother cannot even look at me. The fucking coward. I turn on my heel and I open the bedroom door, finding that Thor had left. Perhaps the reality of the situation was too hard for him, but now I spare no sympathy for him. I head upstairs, to where both my bedroom and Thor's are, and instead of turning into mine, I walk straight ahead, barging into Thor's bedroom.

"Fuck you." I seeth, glaring at Thor so hard his eyes could start to burn. I then raise my voice to a yell but not loud enough that Mother and Father can hear. "How could you do this to me?"

Thor doesn't look at me, his gaze is directed instead to the portion of the wall behind me.

"I was wrong about you. You aren't brave, or strong. You're a filthy coward. You're afraid of yourself and you take it out on me. It won't change you. You're still the same Thor who fell in love with his younger brother and got him kicked out."

"Enough!" I hear Father's true colours shine in that booming voice of his. I do not turn.

"Go. Now!" Father demands.

Only now does Thor look at me. I take this opportunity to give him a last lethal stare, before turning on my heel to head into my room, avoiding ever looking at Father. No.

Odin.

I take my green suitcase from the side of the room and I put all the clothes and items I can into it. I then pull my duffel bags down from the shelf and I throw the rest of my possessions into them. It takes all of fifteen minutes, before I carry all of the bags and the suitcase out of my room, when I find Thor standing near the top of the stairs.

He looks straight at me, tears forming and his lip quivering. I feel that eat away at my heart but I do not let it show. Instead, I show him a hardened expression.

"I'm sorry." Thor apologises, but I do not grace it with a reply. I struggle with my three duffel bags and one suit case down the stairs and at first, I almost trip, but Thor catches hold of my left arm in time.

"Get off me, you oaf." I retaliate, shaking his grip off of me. I throw the duffel bag full of only clothes down, and then I continue with more ease down the stairs. I used the insult Thor hated most because I knew it would hurt him deepest, and that is all I want to do.

I ignore Mother's sobs and I leave through the front door. It would be the last time I ever stepped foot in that house.


	2. Roger That

The logistic element of the situation does not hit me until I am officially out of the Odinson household. I turn back to see a closed door and a Thor from my bedroom window, looking down at me and crying. I take that as my cue to turn away and walk. Surely, there'd be a never-ending series of new decisions I have to make, but first: right or left?

Following the direction that simply shared the first letter of my name I turn left and walk. The physicality of the motion drives away lingering thoughts. When they threaten to return, I simply bite my lip, washing them away with pain. I turn into a park I never knew the name of and I sit on a bench – any bench. The bags and suitcase surround me like an audience, their weight somehow still managing to pull me down once they were off my hands and shoulders. I feel the distinctive tugging on my heartstrings and I start to cry.

No.

I cannot. Not now, at least. Not yet. I pull out my phone from the front pocket of the suitcase and I call the only person who I can at this point.

"Hey Loki, what's up." I sigh with relief at the sound of his voice, obviously American and strong.

"Hey, Steve. I-" My voice then breaks. For the next few seconds, the call is punctured by the sounds of my sobbing. Fuck, I think. I just couldn't get the words out, no matter how hard I tried.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, hey." Steve says in an attempt to help me regain my composure. It helped a little. I stifle my sobs by holding my breath. "Where are you, Loki?"

"The park near my house."

"Give me fifteen minutes." Steve says as the line cuts off.

I look up for the first time since the call. The park around me has gone unnaturally quiet, and people turned away from me once I glance at them. Public humiliation wasn't exactly what I would have preferred, but what choice do I have? My phone buzzes in my hand and I look at it, only to reject that call from none other than one Thor Odinson. Otherwise known as the only reason I am in this situation in the first place. I catch my free left hand grinding my knuckles together as I think, a tic I never managed to get rid of. In an attempt to suppress my feelings as much as I can, I ball that hand into a fist, digging fingernails into skin. There is no better time to be as numb as possible, and I am glad I manage that quite well, given that I was just kicked out of my home of fifteen years at the mere age of eighteen.

I take a deep breath, even though the air burns my throat as a reminder that I need water, even as I start to feel lightheaded.

_Think of the next thing, Loki, think of tomorrow._

Tomorrow.

What exactly the fuck _am_ I to do tomorrow? Do I go back to school? Will I ever complete high school? Will my- Frigga and Odin still pay my school fees? Unlikely.

My phone vibrates again, but this time, it's from 'Mother'. Mental note to change that to Frigga Odinson. I end the call once more, wanting nothing to do with them. I am not about to offer any relief for their remorse or guilt or whatever it was they called me for. Damn them to Hel-

"Loki!" Steve calls to me, jogging.

"You are a sight for sore eyes."

"Then I must look like freaking Niagra Falls because _what happened?_"

So my eyes are _that _red. I sigh before I tell him. "My parents found out I am gay."

"And?" Steve asks, before his question is answered by the array of bags strewn on the floor. "They did not." Steve almost yells in disbelief.

I drop my gaze. Even he does not know about my relationship with Thor, and I am not ready to tell him the other half of the truth.

"Come." Steve says softly, aware of the audience that do not look at us. He takes a two of my duffel bags and I carry everything else, and follow him to his car. He packs everything into the boot and then pulls me into the backseat.

"I want to know everything."

And so I tell him, replacing things like "Thor told Frigga and Odin that we were involved romantically" with "Thor told Frigga and Odin I am gay". It isn't really that long of a tale, and I surprisingly maintain a certain level of calmness while saying it. I theorise that the full blunt of the happenings has yet to hit me.

Steve continues to listen attentively, blinking blond eyelashes and reacting with shock in his blue eyes where it was called for.

"I packed everything I have, probably more than I should have, but I didn't have time to think." I say solemnly, raising my eyes to meet Steve's. "Definitely more than I should have. I almost fell on the stairs and _Thor_ had to hold me." I close my eyes. "I know he was the one who got me into the mess, but-" Suddenly, my voice breaks and before even I am alerted to my own breakdown, I cry.

Steve pulls me in for a hug, and I do not decide if it helps or not. I just cry into Steve's shoulder, feeling the tears create pathways on my cheeks, sometimes even seeping into my mouth or my nose. The words that were going to leave my mouth I forgot, and the only thing I can think of is the pain. Not physical pain, no. Not akin to having my heart actually ripped out because I bet anything that would be preferable. I feel something in me _break_. And I can only sit by and feel it happen.

It must have been an hour at least, and I am finally hearing my sobs slow down; fade away. There's a pool of tears on Steve Roger's pale blue shirt. I open my mouth, but he shuts me down with a shake of his head as if he knows what I'm about to say.

"Leave it, it's okay. Let's get you to my apartment." Steve decides, as he slides between the two front seats with agility and lands himself in the driver's seat.

"Your family lives in an apartment?" I ask, perhaps a little insensitively. I have never been to Steve's house, despite knowing him for a year. He was my senior in high school and we only met because he'd defended me from a bunch of bullies who called me a – who teased me about my sexuality. Of course, Thor was afraid he'd be associated with the accusations. I immediately regret saying it, but the words are out there already.

"I live alone." He says, not an ounce of finality in that line. He knows it will not suffice to explain. "My father died when I was six. Alcoholic. My mother contracted tuberculosis while she was a nurse. Work hazard, I suppose." Steve pauses. "She was a great mother."

What does one even say in a situation like this? "I'm sorry. I didn't know."

Steve actually smiles. "It's okay. The wound's not so fresh now. Anyway, you've never questioned why I study in England?" Well, actually, no. I didn't see the point in being suspicious of the man who extended to me a great service. "It's because my mother had a sister, Courtney Ross. I was sent here to be taken care of, and she's great, but she mostly leaves me to my own devices." Steve looks at me. "You can take the spare room."

"Until when?" The inevitable can only be postponed.

Steve frowns. "Indefinitely. Though you do need to think about your future."

The car stops. Steve gets out and I follow his lead, carrying bags to the lift lobby, and then taking the lift to the fourth floor. If the marble flooring was any indication that this place was far from shabby, the small chandelier hanging overhead would give you a good clue. I revise my bias towards the word 'apartment' mentally as the doors open and I step in. Mirrors on each side of the elevator but the door reflected the golden lighting to the whole lift. I raise my hand and watch as the two mirrors opposite each other reflect my hand so many times it is only my own vision that prevents me from seeing the entirety of it.

Steve watches my hand intently as he starts to speak. "Palais Garnier – National Opera de Paris has a room popularly known as The Moon Room. It features four mirrors that each reflects a chandelier into infinity." Right, I forgot Steve went to an arts college for fine arts.

The lift doors open and we step out, and I follow Steve down the hallway into apartment #04-02. This apartment is probably worth less than the lift lobby. It is a simple place, and I cannot be thankful enough. At this point, I need simple.

"I love it." I say, admiring the eggwhite walls stained in some small parts and cracking in some others. I turn to Steve, who is smiling. "Thank you." I muster up all the sincerity I have.

"Anything I can do for a friend." Steve replies. He bows his head once before he opens the door to my right. "Make yourself at home."

I grin so widely that my mouth feels the stretch. "For the first time, I will."


	3. Laufeyson

I wake up to the sound of silence and a clock that informs me I have slept past noon. Just yesterday, I woke up in a different bed, but this one, this one feels so much more comfortable. My eyes take a bit of effort to open because dried tears glued the lids together. I must have cried myself to sleep, or cried during my sleep or.. something.

"Steve?" I call, and I walk out of my room. Steve isn't anywhere, but there's a note on the dining table with his handwriting.

_At school now, didn't want to wake you. Be back around 6pm. Steve._

I breathe a little easier. I go into my room again and I take out a notebook and a pencil. As I re-enter the dining room, though, I still look over my shoulder instinctively. My fa- Odin always said that this hobby of mine was ridiculous and I should focus on better things. Since that lecture, I never did this in front of him again. Frigga knew, though, and she was fine with it. I shake these thoughts from my head as I open the book to flip through the pages. Design after design lay on the pages. I drag a finger between two pages, feeling the rough edges where I tore a page out. I must have torn half the number of pages out from the notebook already. Some of these are so elementary and terrible I almost want to tear those out, but then it wouldn't show my gradual progress through the pages. Well, I'm not exactly Picasso, though. Yet.

I close the book and I take a little tour around the small apartment, going into the kitchen, peeping into the open door of Steve's room, brushing my teeth with a toothbrush still in its packaging with a Post It note reading _Loki_. It doesn't take long to memorise the rough layout of the small apartment, so after about half an hour, I lie on the sofa and turn the television on. I slip through the channels, but a tiny voice in the back of my mind doesn't let me choose just one. It disagrees with Masterchef, Winx Club, Spongebob, Finding Nemo, some documentary about black holes, even Saturday Night Live.

I call that voice Loki, You Know You Want To Check Your Phone.

Just to be clear, I do not.

And that is why I am walking to my room, reaching for my phone that I buried in a laptop bag.

_57 missed calls from 3 contacts._

_42 messages from 2 contacts._

_4% battery._

I find the charger easily and plug it into the wall, with my phone being subsequently attached to the other end of the cable.

I sigh. The latest missed call is from a classmate at my high school, most likely wondering where I was. Well, he only called once, so it wasn't like I was terribly missed. The next 56 are from Thor and Frigga, mostly Thor. I shut my eyes for a moment, putting the disgust that started to crawl back in at bay. I flip through the messages that Frigga sent me first.

_Loki, I still love you. Call me back._

_We made a mistake._

_I love you._

_Loki Odinson, come back, please._

I stop. Let's see what Thor's persuasion is.

_I didn't know father would do this_

_If I knew, I wouldn't have_

_I love you, Loki._

_I don't know what to do._

I lock my phone, watching the black fade over the words. I bite my bottom lip to stop it from quivering, though I know I brought this onto myself. Surely, tears come rolling familiarly down my cheeks. And then, anger.

I fucking hate it, and I want to scratch it out of my system, to delete it from people's mouths, to take back every introduction because I need to scratch out Loki _Odinson_. That is not my name anymore. Odin himself declared so. I don't know what would take its place, but FUCK, I cannot have that lingering over me. I had never felt torture like this, like what's inside of me is trying to eat its way out of my body, and I want to let it. I struggle against.. something, and I'm not sure if I'm fighting against myself or that. It doesn't matter, I lash out at myself and I scream, and it must be out of my system now because the anger is gone. It just disappeared. I'm tired, even though I only woke an hour ago. So tired. I don't understand my thoughts and I..

"Loki, have you ever thought about art school?" I am woken up by the sound of Steve's voice and it takes me by surprise. He walks into my room and his expression changes from one of politeness to one of shock and worry. He drops by my side.

"Did you faint? Are you okay?" He asks, and that is fear in his blue eyes.

"Yes." I say weakly, while I am curled into a ball with my body just leaning against the side of my bed. Yes, very convincing. I stand up and I repeat the sentiment. "Yes, I'm fine. What were you saying about arts school?"

Steve takes a moment to decide what he wants to say next, and I'm grateful when he says "Well, I saw your notebook on the dining table- don't look at me like that, I thought it was mine! And anyway, you're really good. I could bring you to my school tomorrow."

I narrow my eyes at both Steve and that suggestion. I've never even thought about it being anything more than a hobby.

"Steve, I've never even thought about it being anything more than a hobby."

"Well think about it now, then." Steve is optimistic, and I stare at him for a few moments more. I wonder what he sees on my face that makes him continue his optimism for the time. But I relent. I owe him, anyway.

"Fine, I'll go."

1. The trip to LASALLE is filled with Steve gushing over how I'm probably better than some of the students there already and "When did you start?" and "How did you not tell me?" and "To think, you didn't even think about this!" I am flattered, but it's not very practical, is it? A life in the fashion industry.

2. Once I get there though, and start talking to some of Steve's friends like 'Natasha from Film and Directing' and 'Clint from Musical Theatre', I admit I am more than sold on the idea.

3. Before I know it, I'm filling up an application form for a Diploma in Fashion Design.

4. Before too long, I am accepted into it.

5. On the form, when they ask for my name, I do not write Loki Odinson.

"Hello, I'm Clint Barton. This is Natasha. You are?"

"I'm Loki.. Laufeyson."

"Strange name."

"Yes, it's from Norse mythology. My mother used to tell me about them when I was a child."

"Well, nice to meet you, then, Loki Laufeyson."


	4. Epilogue: Steve

People talk. People talk about the relativity of time, of the weight of a feather, of the way the world shall end. People talk so much about things they know so little of, and so little of the things they should know more of. My eyes are fixed on the television screen as the news anchor talks about the Israel-Palestinian conflict like it's just another story; her hands remain poised as she drops her eyes from the camera to the paper in front of her. She looks back to smile and informs me that I should 'stay tuned to find out more about the economy of China'.

People talk, and they do not think correctly. If not her, another. If not Israel and Palestine, Gaza, or somewhere else. People talk too much, and do too little.

"How intent are you on crushing that mug?" Loki asks me, coming into the living room with a smile playing on his lips. I turn around and I smile back, glad that he doesn't look as pale as he used to. He sits down on the couch beside me and he looks to the television, on which a commercial about a new musical is showing. Something about a large, green monster, I think. I wonder how much set design had to be-

"So what's it this time?" Loki asks, carefully both solemn and interested. Although I know he doesn't care as much about what's going on as how what's going on affects me, I appreciate the concern.

"The Israel-Palestine conflict." I say, earning a slow and knowing nod about the issue. I said that he didn't care that much, not that he didn't know.

"What are you going to do?" He asks, placing a hand over both of mine, which I have unknowingly intertwined together tightly. Even my knuckles are white. I relax, and feel the warm rush of blood flow into my hands.

"I don't know." I reply truthfully. We've already spoken about my options, and still, I can't decide between the two. On one hand, if I take the Fine Arts scholarship at Rhode Island School of Design, it'd be a dream come true. On the other, I can't just sit back and watch human disasters happen, I have to do _something_ and yet what can _I_ do anyway?

Loki sucks in a bit of air, a pensive look on his face. He isn't quite sure if he should say what he is going to say next, and he starts off very slowly.

"The arts.. can wait."

"Rhode Island won't-"

"There are others, Steve." Loki is more firm now; he believes more in his own words.

I become silent, and I know that he is probably right. What he doesn't know is something I have not yet told him, another reason I put against myself from going back to America and enlisting in the military.

"I'll survive on my own, Captain Rogers." Loki says directly to me, doing a salute with his fingers.

I laugh. Well, okay, maybe he does know the reason.

"You sure?" I ask, already knowing that Loki won't let himself stand in the way of something I want. I wish he'd be honest with himself before it gets too late. It's probably his greatest flaw.

"Of course. You've been away from America too long, anyway. Only thing is," Loki's face falls a little, "I don't know how you bear with those ugly uniforms." Loki says, convincingly disappointed.

We both laugh and I pull Loki in for a hug. He returns it, resting his head on my shoulders.

"When you come back, I want you to tell me all about it."

"Might be sooner than you think. I'm not exactly the strongest of men."

Loki rolls his eyes. "I'm sure by American standards.." His eyes glint with mischief.

I grin, and I glance Loki up and down quickly. _He'll be fine_, I tell myself.

"_Go, Steve._" Loki urges like it's the most obvious thing.

"Thank you."

"You're ridiculous, you know that."

"Thank you, Loki."

"You're welcome, Steve."

People talk. People talk about so much. But I'd never heard anything talk about the way it feels when your best friend flies all the way to another country for the first time just to see you off to the army. I knew nothing before of the way it feels so bittersweet to truly say goodbye for the first time, and to watch someone fade so far from view, and yet know they are grinning so much and tearing at the same time. I still see the outstretched hand that keeps on waving to me – Loki's white, pale, untanned skin decorated undoubtedly by new designs he thought of. I keep telling him to buy a sketch pad..

People talk, and they don't say enough. But one day, I know people will say the world about Loki Laufeyson.


End file.
